


The Annual North-East Training Exercise

by boltlightning



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Pre-Series, Rivalry, a weird begrudging friendship rivalry tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:37:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9602039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltlightning/pseuds/boltlightning
Summary: Once a year, the perfect defense and the perfect offense face off in a friendly exercise. And once a year, Olivier Armstrong gets another chance to crush Roy Mustang into the dust. All in the spirit of the exercise, of course.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i think roy and olivier have a lot of interesting parallels, and their weird relationship was worth exploring. this sort of got out of control, but i needed it out of my system. 
> 
> this takes place after roy's promotion to colonel, but before ed becomes an alchemist - during that brief period where ed is recovering from automail surgery.
> 
> please enjoy!

**April 23 rd, 1913 - 10:32pm / Eastern Command Center, East City**

Three days, Major General Armstrong has wasted in East City for this exercise. One more day, this idiocy would last – then she could promptly and happily return to her bitter, cold mountain. 

The Annual North-East Training Exercise was a tradition that had lasted too long, in Armstrong’s humble opinion. Briggs soldiers (and, by custom only, the other troops at Northern Command) were considered the best defensive force in the nation, and the East Army the best offensive force. It makes sense for the two to train with each other, to try and assert their dominance as either immovable object or unstoppable force. The soldiers would run through drills and competitive exercises for three days, then face off on the fourth in an all-day capture the flag event with all troops on board. To Armstrong, however, the four days of the exercise are simply four days of ass-kissing the higher-ups, worshipping the war heroes, and general bragging and showmanship.

The only reason Armstrong bothers to come anymore is for the Briggs men. Her commanding officer, Lieutenant General Osborn, manages to convince her every year that Briggs needs a chance to unwind from being cooped up in the wall all year, to show Amestris they are not growing idle on their mountain. Major Miles, annually, calls it “strutting their tail feathers” – peacocking, in more colloquial speak. Unfortunately, accompanying her men to the exercise every year means running into undesirables and rubbing elbows with her sleazy compatriots of equal rank when she and Miles cannot find an excuse to avoid them.

And since his return from Ishval, Olivier Armstrong inevitably runs into Colonel Roy Mustang at _least_ once a year.

Oh, sure, he’s proclaimed as the Hero of Ishval, a loyal alchemist with fire for blood – but Armstrong knows just what he is. The young man sits as a colonel at the age of 27 ( _28 in May_ , he was sure to remind her), handpicked by that old man Grumman to hold an office in East City. She hears stories that all Mustang does is lurk around the city with ladies, that he only has his title and power because he and Grumman share the same taste in women. Armstrong has never been one to believe rumors when she hears them, but they are always founded in truth.

For what it’s worth, he puzzles her. Every year, he brings Lieutenants Havoc and Hawkeye to the exercise, and they are damn fine officers – Havoc is perhaps a bit too easygoing for Armstrong’s preference, but the two knew their weapons better than any Eastern troops she’d met. They are well-tempered and dutiful, but not lacking in personality and devotion. Despite her blunt offers to promote them in the North, they stayed firm by Mustang’s side, unwillingly to defect. Mustang himself is always polite and formal, nothing like how the rumors say he acts around women. They corresponded briefly over the years, regarding the transfer of a wounded Briggs soldier to his office in Eastern, or concerning supply shipments and other bureaucratic whatnot. He has always been succinct and to the point, but his letters always asked a friendly “How are you doing this winter?” at the end, or had a joke sneaked into his farewell. He is clever and cordial, though he has yet to follow up on any of the dinners he keeps asking her on.

She still doesn’t have to like him, though. How could someone so young and charismatic gain his rank as fast as he did, if not by favoritism and charm? He always manages to rub her the wrong way. Perhaps he was gunning for her position, too.

On the night of the third day, she is in a foul mood as she heads down to the mess hall for an evening cup of tea. Three days she had wasted here, but soon it would be over. The mess hall is more or less deserted – the Northern soldiers are most likely out on the town with their Eastern counterparts, living up the last full night they had in temperate, warm East City. She has her tea steeping in a tin mug when she spots Colonel Mustang at one of the tables scribbling something on a stack of papers, surrounded by folders. Curiosity gets the better of her; she walks precariously close to his table to see if he will initiate conversation.

It works. When he realizes there is someone in his peripheral vision, his eyes glance up suddenly. He sets his pen down, careful to avoid smearing the drying ink. “General Armstrong. Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

She pointedly looks away from him, huffing. “My evenings will be lovely again when I’m not wasting my time with these exercises.”

“There is only a day left, General,” he concedes, shrugging. “Surely, you can tolerate 24 more hours in our terrible desert town.”

“I run a mountain, Colonel. Endurance is our specialty.”

He snorts, picking his pen back up. “Of course, General. Shouldn’t you get some rest before tomorrow? You _do_ have to endure our capturing of the Northern flag bright and early in the morning.”

“Hmph. You seem certain, Colonel. What makes you think you’ll win against us?”

“Why, General Armstrong. you seem certain as well – I thought you didn’t care for the exercise.”

Roy Mustang smiles at her, and she rolls her eyes. He has a silver tongue and a sharp mind, two things that are very dangerous in tandem. “Well, regardless,” she continues, “we keep holding this annual circus. Officers like yourself seem to enjoy them.”

“What? Oh, no. Not at all.” His reaction catches her by surprise. Mustang sweeps his arm over the table, gesturing to the piles of paper scattered around him. “I’m _swamped_ – someone has to run the command center when Grumman’s out at play. Three officers of my team are there with the skeleton crew day and night while we play at war, and I’m still up to my eyes in paperwork. This is a colossal waste of time, but I have to make do.” He sighs heavily, then suddenly notices the change in the mood of the conversation. Quickly he adds, “Though I think it’s kind of fun. It’s nice to get out of office and run some drills with the men.”

For a moment, Mustang looks beyond his age. His eyes are tired, weary, but he rubs at them and still manages to smile at her, though this time it doesn’t look quite as smug. This is a man who was dragged into war, then back into the hells of bureaucracy, having asked for none of it. Armstrong takes a second to shrug off any empathy she had felt for Mustang – she has a reputation to keep, after all – and sniffs, turning to walk away.

“Goodnight, Mustang. Rest well,” she says, though from her mouth it is intended as a warning. “You have a training exercise to lose tomorrow. 

There’s a pause, but the scribbling of his pen resumes. She has always known there is more to Mustang than what meets the eye; she would have to keep an eye on that one.

* * *

**April 24 th, 1913 – 8:00am / Military Parade Grounds, East City**

The winner of the exercise is given a simple crown, wrought in iron, to hold onto for the year. Traditionally, the winner of the previous year would pass the crown around between its commanding officers over the four days of the exercise. The North had won the past three annual exercises, and this morning, burnished gold in the morning sun, the crown rests on General Armstrong’s head as she overlooks the Northern fort.

Forts are built on opposite ends of the parade grounds, and the soldiers are allowed to add to the structures, so long as these additions did not violate certain restrictions. The flags to be captured could not be obscured from view, and must be placed in a reasonably accessible location; potentially fatal defenses such as barbed wire and caltrops were banned, as well as dangerous artillery like flash grenades; and walls built around any fort must have a clear entrance and be scalable. 

Every year, the troops struggle to come up with new strategic additions that adhered to the standards, but it is not every year that the two competing forces have additional help from visiting officers from Central Command. This year, the Eastern army has the crafty Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes, best friend to the equally shrewd Roy Mustang, helping them out. They’ve wreathed their flag in a tangle of jingling golden bells – it is certainly visible, but any stealthy attempts to steal the flag would be not be able to steal in and out of the fort without setting off the alarm.

 _Damn the East_ , Armstrong thinks, rolling her eyes. This trick has Hughes written all over it. _He has always had a flair for the dramatic._

Hughes’ superior in the investigations office, Colonel Henry Douglas, has allied with the North to even the odds. He had managed to convince the Silver Alchemist (Major Giolo Comanche, a near-senile veteran of Ishval who had recently returned to the force with a peg leg in place of his amputated leg) to construct a miniature Briggs wall around the Northern fort, with a heavy and unnecessarily ornate iron gate right at the front. Armstrong would be commanding defensive forces inside the fort, the flag up a level behind her on a parapet.

As per usual, the East gets clever and creative, but risky; the North sticks to the tried and true.

She stands in the center of the small complex, her hand on the hilt of her saber. (It’s _technically_ a fencing saber Miles had found for her in lieu of her far-too-dangerous family sword, but the men fear this pose regardless.) Miles stands to one side of her, Sergeant Karley with the radios on the other. Buccaneer commands forces beyond the walls in her stead.

A bugle sounds, and the exercise begins. Already, the radios are chattering; General Osborn and the other Northern generals, as well as Colonel Douglas, spew suggestions and warnings from what they can see in the towers on their end of the parade grounds. Through the gates of the wall, Armstrong can see the troops as they begin to engage the Eastern army. The opposition had, unsurprisingly, left their base scarcely armored, but manned with tactical units.

Officers in the field call updates over the radio. The Eastern forces had been stopped cold before they could get close to the wall – a typical head-on collision. They retreat back to their side of the parade grounds around noon, leaving the Briggs troops wary. A stealth assault on the Eastern base had been thwarted before the small team could even reach the flag, and the five officers are kept under close watch in the opposing fort. By the sounds of it, the hostages are sharing cold sodas with their Eastern captors, which seems better than this exhausting stalemate. It’s only spring, and the East is unseasonably hot; the heat is further amplified by the stifling weight of their leather protective gear, and Armstrong feels herself growing uncomfortable already. 

To Armstrong’s surprise, there is only one small, secretive sneak attack on the Northern fort; a pair of Eastern cadets were found crawling up the side of the wall, and avoided capture by walking hazardously along the top of the wall before they were stopped short at the wire gate. For a while, Armstrong thinks the Northern victory is secure for the fourth year in a row.

Then the dust storm kicks up.

It’s not a natural dust storm – the East must be generating this somehow. Osborn squawks his surprise over the radio, warning the troops to stay alert. The dust clouds reach the wall but are impeded by it. A few soldiers begin to cough, but Armstrong and Miles continue to squint into the obscuring dust. 

There is a thundering trampling of feet, then a short, sharp shout, then the distinctive crackle of transmutation. Suddenly, something massive slams into the gates. As the dust begins to clear, Armstrong sees the East has managed to bring a battering ram right to her front door. There is another terrifying _bam!_ , and the whole wall shakes as the ram hits the gates again.

“Man the guns!” she roars at the riflemen. “Get them _away_ from these gates!” 

The men comply, but beanbag rounds are only so aerodynamic. The Northern forces outside, lead by a rampaging Captain Buccaneer, attempt to stop them, but the battering ram has a team protecting it. There is another shuddering slam, accompanied by a fresh wave of panic. Armstrong and Miles send extra men forward and beyond the gates from other hidden exits in an attempt to stem the flow of Eastern soldiers. One more slam comes, then two. The dust storm subsides, only to reveal that one of the gates has swung open.

Eastern soldiers begin to force their way in, leaping over the battering ram. The fighting stirs up what looks to be another dust storm, though on a much smaller scale. A small advance pierces through the staff of Briggs men, and leading the pack is that smug snake Roy Mustang.

The other soldiers fall back to keep the Northern men occupied, but Mustang strides right towards General Armstrong. His helmet hangs from his belt, cracked and useless, and his hair is streaked gray with dust. A gash on his forehead is bleeding, a beanbag-shaped bruise is swelling on his cheek, and his lip is split. He looks awful, exhausted, but even as Armstrong draws her saber, he does not slow his pace. 

“Halt, Mustang,” she barks. Miles has been drawn into the fight and Karley with him, but surely she can take Mustang alone. Just what is he planning?

He gets closer, so close she can see the flecks of blue in his dark eyes – and runs right into her, crashing a sloppy, wet kiss right onto her cheek. The momentum pushes her back a step, and her crown nearly slips backwards off her head.

All the Northern soldiers stop and stare, dumbstruck, at the man who dared to kiss Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong.

In her rage, all she can think to do is push him as far away from her as possible. With a shove, she knocks him back, and he stumbles to the ground laughing. The distraction had been enough, however. Even the radios are going wild – from a nearby Eastern radio, Armstrong can hear Maes Hughes’ howls of laughter. The men are still gathering their bearings, and seem to just miss Lieutenants Havoc and Hawkeye as they burst forward from the crowd. 

Havoc boosts Hawkeye up to the wall. She skillfully scrambles up the parapet, dodges a blow from the posted guard, and yanks the flag from its post with a cry of victory. The Northern soldiers are unable to stem the flow of Eastern soldiers that had bottlenecked into the fort. Hawkeye and Havoc return to their for with little incident, riding on the shoulders of their comrades. The banner of Amestris hovers above them where Hawkeye holds the flag aloft, the blue ribbons of the North streaming off the pole.

The bugle sounds again, signaling the end of the exercise. Colonel Mustang stands up, brushes his hair out of his eyes, and offers Armstrong his gloved hand. “Well fought, General,” he says, his eyes glittering.

Armstrong simply looks at his offered hand and storms off, Sergeant Karley in tow. Miles concedes the handshake, and Buccaneer murmurs something quiet to the colonel that makes him laugh.

* * *

**April 25 th, 1913 – 9:04am /**  **East City Station**

The Briggs soldiers load onto the train in a line, two abreast, while Armstrong stands on the platform with General Osborn. It’s one last formality before Armstrong can safely return to her mountain – the Northern officers wait to board last to give their last farewells to their hosts. General Grumman, the iron crown slipping down his narrow head, chums it up with her fellow generals, poking fun at their loss.

Colonel Mustang and Lieutenant Colonel Hughes approach, smiling innocently. The two are in good humor, as usual, but Armstrong’s biting urge to ignore them rises hot and fast in her throat, like bile. She sighs as they wave their greeting.

“What could you two possibly want from me?”

“Simply to give our regards.” Mustang is grinning, still bearing his wounds from the exercise – his lip boasts a slit right down the center, and the gash on his forehead has been closed with a butterfly bandage. His cheek is yellow with bruising. He’s at least clean, his hair slicked neatly back from his face (to keep from getting in his forehead cut, presumably).

“Honestly, General Armstrong – you all put up a good fight each year, from what Roy tells me,” Hughes adds. He’s always been more lax about formalities, and rarely refers to the colonel by his title; Mustang doesn’t even react. “I was seriously concerned when I saw the wall you put up. Tried to tell Colonel Douglas it broke the rules, but that man is always ready with a loophole.”

“Hmph. I suppose the East fought bravely, as well. Though I would hardly consider this a major victory.”

“Of course not,” Mustang affirms in a dry tone. “It’s just the one event a year we face off. Not a major contest for the men at all.”

“Regardless,” Armstrong cuts in, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, “you two had some dirty tactics. Smart, and enough to win, but underhanded.”

“Ah! Roy’s brilliant distractions! Don’t worry about that, General. Dust storms settle,” Hughes says, and leans in close to murmur, “and a gentleman never kisses and tells.”

Mustang snorts, but quickly stifles it when Armstrong turns her glare towards him. “Water under the bridge, General Armstrong?” He offers his hand, gloved in pristine white cotton (not unlike her own hands, she notes). “I truly am sorry - I didn't mean to humiliate you. I just needed a distraction. And I’ll send flowers once you get back to Briggs – as a thank you.”

She narrows her eyes and slowly lifts her gaze to his. For the second time in two days, she ignores the hand. “For what?”

“For the challenge,” he starts, tilting his head. “And, well…for the kiss, and you not killing me on the spot. As Maes said, I _am_ a gentleman.”

“You men never change.” She clicks her tongue and turns on her heel to board the train, but doesn’t miss their waves and calls of farewell.

 _Idiots,_ she thinks, rolling her eyes, as she enters the car where the generals were gathering. Next year, she’d crush Mustang into the dust – and she’d do it without using something as craven as an underhanded, disrespectful, and admittedly effective distraction.

* * *

Mustang sends his flowers, as promised, but is surprised to get his own bouquet of rhododendrons in response. The note attached is simple:

_Next year, I’ll be prepared._

He puts the card down, shakes his head, and returns to his work.


End file.
